


Friday I'm in Love

by Umbrella_ella



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3510746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Hart is dead in front of a church on a Sunday (ironic, innit?), and Eggsy never apologized to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday I'm in Love

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points to whoever gets the reference at the end. 
> 
> Prepare your tissues, and please, comment, leave a kudos, let me know if you liked it!

 

 

 

Sunday 

Harry Hart dies on a Sunday.

A quick death, really, and it’s all that Eggsy can be thankful for.

Harry Hart is dead in front of a church on a Sunday (ironic, innit?), and Eggsy never apologized to him. The news hits him when he’s alone in the house that Harry Hart owns. _Owned._

Eggsy’s swilling brandy between his teeth, pretending like the burn of the alcohol can erase the bitter taste in his mouth. The glass tumbles from his fingers and he feels sick at the thought of the last time he’d seen Harry, in a fresh, clean shirt, glasses between careful fingers, and cream sweater half open, his angry mouth pressed to a thin line.

The glass is suddenly very heavy, and Eggsy doesn’t doubt that the brandy will stain the very nice rug under the table. He moves to soak up the alcohol with an abandoned serviette, but Eggsy stops, the cloth hanging loosely between his fingertips as he watches the cream rug soak up the amber alcohol, suddenly very aware that the cream color of the rug is the exact shade of the cardigan Harry had been wearing the last time they spoke.

And then Eggsy is sobbing, grief-stricken, throaty gasps of heartbreak clawing at his throat, _raw and wrenching_ , there on his knees, a cloth clenched in his fist, and he is grabbing at everything he can, tossing it at the walls, the shattering of glass bringing very little relief to him. Eyes watery, Eggsy can’t see beyond his grief, and he continues shattering and breaking everything until there’s nothing left in him, until his throat is aching from the screams and his face is hot and his fists are bloody with cuts and Eggsy is suddenly so very, very tired.

A hollow pain fills him and Eggsy aches all over, like the bruises Dean so often leaves on his skin, but Eggsy would almost prefer that to whatever _this_ is, because he doesn’t want _this._

He never wanted any of it.

The pain is all he can feel, and Eggsy feels raw inside.

Each breath tears him apart.

Monday

They figure out Valentine’s plan the next day, but Harry is still dead, and Eggsy is still aching.

He kills Arthur and wonders if Arthur wanted Harry out of the way.

Eggsy decides it doesn’t matter.

Tuesday

Eggsy saves the world on a Tuesday, and he thinks that maybe Harry’d be proud.

Valentine grins up at him, blood tinging his smile, and Eggsy doesn’t feel a fucking thing.

Merlin congratulates him when he makes his way back to the plane, champagne beneath one arm and three glasses in his hand.

“Well done, Galahad, you’ve made him proud,” the Scot reminds him with a friendly clap to the shoulder and heavy eyes that look like they’ve seen too many deaths.

_He has_ , Eggsy thinks, and Harry’s demise had been Eggsy’s fault.

Eggsy’s stomach turns. Roxy smiles at him and he just nods.

He’s not in the mood for celebration. So instead, he leaves Roxy and Merlin to enjoy the champagne, and calls his mum instead.

Wednesday 

The paper reads _Billionaire Dead After Global Violence_ , and Eggsy reads the article, grateful that the Kingsman Service isn’t mentioned once, only describing Valentine’s death as a freak accident.

The front page is dedicated to the deaths of leaders worldwide, and the obituaries are delivered separately from the paper.

Eggsy pays extra anyways.

Harry Hart is wedged between Thomas Harker and Mary Horton. His obituary doesn’t say much at all, instead, it only reads, _“Harry Hart will be sorely missed by his colleagues. Once a ward of the state, he has no surviving family to speak of.”_

Eggsy throws it away and rearranges Harry’s dining room, cleaning up the broken glass and purchasing a new rug.

Later he steals Harry’s robe from his closet, the maroon one and tries not to think of how much it still smells like Harry.

Thursday

Harry’s funeral is quiet, and no one shows up, so it’s only Merlin, Roxy, and Eggsy next to the small plaque in the ground.

There is no epitaph on the stone, only a birthdate and a death date. It’s not raining, surprisingly, and Eggsy is grateful for it— it’s green and sunny, and the sky is clear.

The casket they bury glints in the sunlight.

Merlin speaks briefly, helped along on occasion by Roxy’s hand on his forearm, steadying his shaking hands. The pages of the Bible Merlin holds still shake slightly.

Eggsy stays longer than the others. Clouds grow on the horizon, and the sun slips away, the cemetery lit only by the flickering street lamps.

There are a thousand and one things Eggsy wants to say out loud.

_I miss you._

_I love you._

“Come back, please.”

He leaves when it begins to rain, the drops pitting the fresh earth covering the casket.

Friday

Eggsy hates Harry Hart.

Harry Hart is lying in a hospital bed, one eye closed, and the other covered by a bandage, face pale as the pillow that supports his head, and Eggsy _fucking_ hates him.

Except he doesn’t, and Eggsy is stumbling forward and he can’t breathe and he wishes Harry was dead, because that hurts less than seeing him here, in this place, and Eggsy feels ill.

“Stupid fucking arsehole. You’re fucking dead. I fucking buried you.”

Eggsy is crying again, and this time, he’s pressing his face into Harry’s neck, and Eggsy shudders against him and it’s too much, all of this and Eggsy inhales the scent of warm scotch and cigars, of Guinness and soap and _Harry_ and he doesn’t ever want to leave.

“I love you, you stupid, stupid man,” Eggsy mutters, and he presses his nose to Harry’s pulse point, delighting in the warm skin beneath his touch.

Harry inhales sharply, eye fluttering open, and he finally speaks.

“Where the devil are my slippers?”


End file.
